


Crossing Live Wires

by kidskylark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Mandatory drone collection, Other, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidskylark/pseuds/kidskylark
Summary: Trolls without partners still need to perform their civic duties. You've met up with your drone day partner, Paj, every collection day since you moved to Rinceau. In theory, today should be like any other day with them. In theory, as always, you have everything under control.Ghurab hooks up with someone she's relied on for sweeps, proverbially shoots herself in the foot, and is prepared to take everyone else down with her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not fluff, this is Ghurab misunderstanding, then refusing to act with compassion. It doesn't have a happy ending.
> 
> Even though this fic doesn't have smut in it, it does allude to sex (as in, mandatory genetic material collections in Alternian society) and the story is told before and after hooking up. Therefore, it's been marked as mature.

The farmer's market is held inside an old imperial warehouse. It's the last thing on Rinceau that looks like its homeworld, you think, with imitation "horns," windows like eyes, and irregular, asymmetrical shapes that make up its husk.

 

It's a shame. Alternia's architecture never looked good after you reached age eight.

 

The buildings around it - built by Rinceaux hands, not Alternian - have managed to survive barrage after barrage. In contrast, their painted windows shine multi-colored light on the dappled, leaf-strewn floor of the planet. High above you, treetops catch the moonlight, and let it run off their boughs until it spills onto the ground. Everything on this planet is filled with light to the point of blinding, but it's Rinceau. It's your colony, your home, and it's  _ not _ Alternia, no matter how many idols of Empresses you bow to. Petty, perhaps - but you never claimed to be fair.

 

The "door" to the warehouse is less of a door, and more of a rough-hewn opening. The closing mechanism for the rolling door broke a few years ago, and the Rinceaux chose to take a pickaxe to it, and widen the gate. Then, as you pass under, the pleasant breeze of the outside disappears, and you're surrounded by the heat of other trolls, all bustling around in your space.

 

You're looking for one troll in particular. You pass by the familiar vendors with nary a passing glance, keeping your head high, and your shadowy eyes straight ahead. You ignore the stares. You ignore everyone, in fact, until you reach your goal.

 

Pajlau is a tall, stocky troll, wearing a pair of overalls and a light tee shirt. The denim material is stained in their orange, and accented by oil paints, dust, and mud. Their floor-length hair is sun-bleached in streaks, which show through even now, when they've tied it all up in a tight, braided bun. They never told you which sun did it. You never asked.

 

"Fancy meeting you here," you say, in your faux suave voice. You put both hands on their table and lean across it, making your presence well-known.

 

Paj finishes preparing a basket of fresh strawberries, fruit by tiny fruit. Only when the lid is closed do they answer you. "You meet me here every season, Ghurab. Today is nothing new."

 

Your mouth curves into a smile, or perhaps it's closer to a smirk. "Aww, no fun! Come on, Paj, humor me! How long are you staying today?"

 

"As long as it takes to sell everything!" They take their sweet time, lifting a large melon up to their stand. Then, spotting someone behind you, they shoo you away from the table. "Don't block the prices, stupid. Either help me or come back later."

 

They don't like you hanging around. That doesn't mean you intend to stop. You start picking up containers of blueberries, raspberries, and other kinds of tiny fruits you can't recognize. Imported shit, probably. It's not your concern.

 

"Sooooo," you say, as you heft these up onto the counter. Pajlau holds their hand up to you until they finish talking to a customer, then lower it, and raise one eyebrow. "Are we still on for tonight?"

 

"Cutting it kind of close, aren't you?"

 

"I'm not coming down here every week, I need to space out my trips."

 

Paj rolls their eyes, then flicks you in the temple. The vibration resonates up your horns, to the very tip. "Space them out better. Fine. We're on for tonight. Don't make me wait so long next time, please, Ghurab. I'm not dying for you."

 

"Of course," you chirp, your smile not once fading. The feeling is mutual. You both made that much very clear. "I'll be on time! Don't worry about it."

 

"Every time you say that, I can't help feeling like I  _ should _ worry about it," Paj grumbles. You chirrup your strange little laugh, and when no one else is looking, you stand on top of their cooler to kiss them on the cheek.

 

Or at least, you  _ thought _ no one was looking. Unfortunately for you, the next thing you feel is Paj's hand at the back of your shirt, putting you back on the ground like a naughty wriggler. A customer at the table gives you a strange look, and Paj, stoic as they are, can't keep the color out of the tips of their ears.

 

"Sorry about that," they say, pushing flyaway hair out of their face. "My  _ friend _ had something to tell me. Will that be the usual?"

  
_ Friend. _ Fine, you think. You'll take that,  _ this time. _


	2. Chapter 2

Pajlau smokes. You've never asked why. They're in their tee shirt and pants, sitting at the edge of your strange, makeshift pile. They use their own herbs for it, or something like that. They explained it to you once, but it went over your head, and it never seemed pertinent to ask again. When they exhale, the vapor curls around itself as it makes its way to the ceiling of the barn.

 

"Ghurab," they say, with their back to you, "I've been thinking about something."

 

"That does tend to be what thinkpans do."

 

You can  _ hear _ the scowl in their voice, even without looking at you. "Just for that, nevermind."

 

Lethargy seeps into your muscles with a pleasant weight. Too bad you have to ruin it. You sit yourself up, pick your scarf out of the straw, and set about tying it around your neck.

 

"Come on, Paj. You started it, you might as well finish it."

 

They still won't face you.

 

"I don't think this is for me," they say, finally. "This..." And they seem to lack the words to describe what they're talking about, because they gesture, roughly, to you, and to all the space around them.

 

"We don't have to be here," you offer, helpfully. You'd love to be home, but your treehive is more out of the way than Paj's farm, and Paj thinks it's cramped.

 

They shake their head. "It's not the location. It's the people. It's you."

 

"Me?"

 

"No, not  _ you, _ " they try to cover. "I mean it's... Us. Like this."

 

But the damage is already done. Your smile is gone, and Pajlau hears it when you speak next: "It's business. We have obligations to fulfill, and we fulfill them. What more do you need?"

 

"I want a partner. I want a matesprit. Why are you taking this personally?"

 

"You said it was me."

 

"It's not  _ you, _ or it wasn't at first, but it sure is about to be!"

 

Your power pack buzzes a piercing warning through your skull, and you, immediately, respond by hissing to it "Will you  _ can it?" _

 

And, as fate would have it, Pajlau doesn't seem to realize that you mean your power pack, not them. They aren't looking at you, so they don't see the direction of your frustration, and... if you're honest with yourself, maybe that doesn't entirely matter. Maybe their assumptions are still correct.

 

"I don't appreciate that," they say, slowly. The rolled-up paper between their forefinger and thumb is burning with soft red-orange embers. "I don't appreciate any of this, actually. I thought, maybe, we could work this out, but now I don't think we can. I don't think we work together, Ghurab, and I'm kinda tired of that. Aren't you?"

 

"No," you say, stubbornly, "and I think you're being idealistic. This is a matter of survival, not  _ love. _ What are you going to do, duck the law until you can chase down a proper matesprit? That could take seasons."

 

"Maybe."

 

You just laugh. It sounds like crooning.

 

"Okay, have fun explaining that one to the government!" You slip on your boots, one by one, and straighten out the pack at your belt. "Let me know how it goes, if you aren't dead in a few weeks."

 

"You don't have to be like this, Ghurab. I'm trying to talk to you."

 

"Really?" They look back at you, finally, and you flash them a smile, full of sharp teeth and venom. "Because it sounds kind of like you've already made up your mind!"

 

"I hadn't," they say, first. Then, realizing something, they correct themselves: "I hadn't, before now."

 

You move to stand. Paj offers you a hand up. You ignore it, favoring the wall instead, and they stand too.

 

"So this is the hill you're going to die on, then," you ask them. You look them in the eyes when you do it. Everyone hates when you do that.

 

Much to your surprise - and dismay - Paj doesn't flinch. They stare right back. They drop their smoke on the ground between you. When their boot comes down, they extinguish it. It dies in silence.

 

"I'd rather be idealistic than empty," they tell you. "And if you don't mind, I think our time here is through."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oma-Ona is a New Caledonian Crow variant, which are apparently also called "qua-quas," for the sound they make.

Oma-ona seems to know exactly how to get in your way. You see their light just moments before their large beak, as it moves into your workspace without provocation or warning.

 

"No," you say, firmly, and push them back. It doesn't do much. You never claimed to be strong. "I'm working, Oma. Go away."

 

Your lusus doesn't seem to agree. They start nosing at you with their beak, their light bouncing and bobbing and distracting you from any hopes of work. You're not sure if they're trying to smell you, or just annoy you, but it's grating either way.

 

"I don't want to talk. I need to finish this."

 

"QUA."

 

"Don't give me that! I told you, the deadline is coming up in a few days. I'm going to be early."

 

"QUA."

 

You roll your eyes. "Go  _ away. _ I don't need your attitude tonight. Don't you have someplace to sit and preen?"

 

They tip their head, considering this, and then... plop down at the side of your chair, beginning to turn their head and pick at their feathers. They then look at you expectantly. You throw your hands up in the air, and return to your work.

 

"I'm annoyed because I need a new..." What do you call it? Paj wasn't your partner, not officially, and you were certainly never matesprits. They made that much very clear. "... Back-up plan," you settle on, finally.

 

"QUA."

 

"No, I don't want a matesprit. People expect too much of matesprits." You hold your tiny screwdriver between your teeth as you put a new, polished gear into the watch. Then, removing it, you finish the thought: "It's too much work. Too sensitive."

 

You twist the new gear into place, and test how it aligns with the others. It's a perfect fit. (Of course it is, you made it, after all.) Machines just _ work _ like this. Everything has a place. Everything can be fixed, altered... improved.

 

"QUA."

 

"Shut up."

 

"QUA," says your lusus, more insistent this time.

 

You pause in your work just long enough to look at your lusus and roll your eyes again, in a way you make  _ sure _ they can see. You're an obstinate charge. "You don't know anything about quadrants. Matespritship isn't 'more stable,' it's arguably worse. I'm happy the way I am: Abiding by the law as I'm told, like a good little troll, and then doing my own thing."

 

You might be able to convince your pitch not-partner to help you cover while you look for someone new. Maybe. You'll think about it.

 

"I don't need anyone else. I'm not some weakling. I've survived this long, and I'm going to keep surviving. Paj can run themselves into the ground for all I care."

 

You close the back of the watch, twist the last few screws, and turn it over. Good as new.

 

"I'm going to sleep."


	4. Chapter 4

One of the pitfalls of your job is that it usually takes you away from home. Although you can fix small mechanics, and you often do, larger, more important machinery is difficult to move. At times like this, Oma-Ona graciously gives you a lift. And although it isn't preferable, sometimes it's fun. You get to see new parts of Rinceau, things that aren't just trees and more trees.

  
  
Today's job takes you to a place you don't want to be anymore. They're making an offer you can't refuse, but you want so desperately to refuse it.

  
  
You go anyway. Your lusus practically drags you out of the tree, but you go anyway.

  
  
Apse is a region of the planet filled with farmland. It's not too far from your area, really, but it's far enough to warrant flying. The more open, flat land would be a welcome sight, you think, if your nose wasn't buried deep in the cogs of a broken grain processor, and if...

  
  
"Ghurab?" says a familiar voice.

  
  
If they weren't based here too.

  
  
You make a loud clanging noise with a wrench against a gear, and try to roll yourself further under the machine. You make a few more clanging noises, then get back to work. Clearly, you could have just mistaken the voice you heard. Ghurab? Whomst? Who's that?

  
  
Pajlau isn't convinced. "Ghurab, I know it's you. Your lusus is outside."

  
  
"Fuck," you mutter.

  
  
"Heard that."

  
  
Well, if they can't take a hint, you can't very well stop working. You might as well test your reinforcements.

  
  
You roll on your back until you can reach the switch. Once unlocked, a string snaps away from the base, and the rolling of wheels down a track tells you the machine is in motion. You return to working on the farming equipment for your next few seconds of serenity.

  
  
"Ghurab, listen, this is really immature."

  
  
There goes the hammer...

  
  
"I was kind of harsh with you, and I'm sorry."

  
  
... then the dominos...

  
  
"But if you're here, could you at least talk to me like a normal troll?"

  
  
... then the latch. They hardly finish speaking when there's a final click, and you pull your legs under the grain machine, just in time to see sopor slime slop onto the floor around Paj's feet.

  
  
SUCCESS. It works! Not too shabby, considering you had to set that up when you got here.

  
  
Pajlau doesn't scream, or yell, or react in any way. There's a moment of silence where they don't even move. This is boring, you decide, and you go to retrieve your wrench, when you hear them again. The only difference is that this time, they aren't saying anything. It sounds... kind of like a gasp, muted suddenly.

  
  
Oh, you realize. They're crying.

  
  
This realization is followed by a second one: Your guilt is unfounded. They brought this on themselves, really. They can deal with the consequences, consequences you're just fine dishing out, because you're going to stay mad about this. Pajlau doesn't get special treatment just because you were once friends. If nothing else, that makes their betrayal worse.

  
  
They don't try anything else after that. They leave. You finish your work, clean up a little, and then you leave, too.


End file.
